


trial, firsthand

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Mind Manipulation, Minor Violence, Murder, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: At the first body’s felling, Jacob will admit (but only to himself), there was a quickening. His breath rasped out harshly at the Deputy’s efficiency, at the brutality of their grace.





	trial, firsthand

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get out smaller things while I prep myself for the larger projects. TSCY will resume shortly; thank you for your patience.

The Dep comes to wearily, slipping bonds from wrists in a haze as Jacob’s voice calls them to action. Their steps are wobbly, and—from his place observing all, he can see—their hands clench decisively over the gun lying on a nearby table. Awareness comes to them, slowly, eel-like on their subconsciousness; there is something here, something about this place, but the dull pinch of understanding fizzles out in the wake of the voice slithering in their ear. It is an insidious thing, that voice, thick and slurry with the burden of command. 

_”Good.”_ The simple word strikes a primal chord within the Deputy, as though the voice has a direct line to deep-seated fallacies, has cut through the muddy thick of higher processes and punched right to the core of them, the matter of primordial meat that prioritizes action over thought. There are bullet holes in bodies before the Rook realizes it, neat little things in foreheads that they don’t quite parse, not fully, not even vaguely. The voice in her head purrs, calls Rook _strong_ where the targets were _weak_ and the fog between their ears thickens, widens to the point where all the Deputy knows is the sound of rattling fire, the _pop_ of ammo.

At the first body’s felling, Jacob will admit (but only to himself), there was a quickening. His breath rasped out harshly at the Deputy’s efficiency, at the brutality of their grace. With each _click-click-click_ of another chamber sliding in the guns he’s left for them, another body lies dead, and another. The allies that so staunchly stood with them against his growing choke-hold over the Whitetails now lie at their feet, the last thing they never see a grim determination settling over the Rook’s face.

Jacob knows no shame, has shed such foolhardy morals long ago, sometime between the fury of Old Man Seed’s fists and the feeling of his comrade’s blood sluicing in his mouth. So his face is stoicism incarnate when deft fingers, sniper’s callouses unbutton the snap of his faded fatigues with practiced weight, mouth curling around words designed to push, push, push at that needy little organ called the Deputy’s brain. He tests the weight of his will against the Rook’s own, watches their spine snap up (so akin to a marionette; oh, how they _dance_ at Jacob’s whim), the pupils of their eyes blow wide, bulge with desire?

Projecting, perhaps. There was always something so curiously special about the Deputy, something _just so_ that drew the collective eye of he and his siblings. But it isn’t the devoted Father—who so often pressed his body against the Deputy when he thought them all unaware—nor the lustful Baptist (who ground his hardness against the Rook’s back when he led them to the water) with this nuisance running laps for them, killing for them. Faith had been more subtle in her machinations—as she is wont to—dosing the Deputy with Bliss before pressing platitudes against their brow, making that stern set to their jaw soften, if only imperceptibly.

He fists his hand around the meaty length of his cock, grip corkscrewing in time to the sound of spent shells clattering to the ground, the residue of the tempest that is the entirety of the Deputy. And this creature, strength within those limbs enough to rival his own, causes bile to rise as surely as his cock does.

Ignore the unsettling feeling warring with the arousal in his gut, focus on slicking the head of his cock, sliding the skin and twisting his wrist _just so_ , just enough to make it hurt, the edge of pain a penance for coveting, the only nod he’ll give to his brother’s faith. His mouth is quicker than his hand, haphazard cooing unfurling, so akin to a litany that he can see the Deputy shiver before they take their next shot, the body they’ve bypassed falling, strings cut.

He tightens his grip, knuckles of his other hand rolling over the head of his cock, beading with pearly droplets of pre-cum as those fingers roll mindless patterns over his tip. On the monitor from which he observes, the Deputy’s foregone the guns he’s left scattered around (presents to them, if he’s allowed honesty) and has pressed fingers to the eyes of their last victim, thumbs digging in deep while the body (truly, he cannot allow himself to think of their victim as human; they are nothing more than mere meat) tenses, mouth opening and shut, supplications to a god that heeds Joseph more than this poor sap.

The savagery on the Rook’s face, the gritted teeth and pinched brow, the blown-out pupils, the strength in their limbs. God. He’s lost, using both hands to work himself up into a frenzy, back bowing back as vision whites out, fades gently at the edges. 

When he comes to, it’s to the Deputy’s fierce grin, _Only You_ a constant reminder in the background. He leans forward, paying no heed to his own mess spilling stickily from his fingertips. _Well done._


End file.
